Dylan thought hard about rain. If he thought about it hard enough, it might start. The window would be much more interesting with raindrops streaming across it.

“Mom, Dad,” Aida hissed. “We can hear you.”

He tuned out the conversation, a little trick he’d learned for when Grandma blasted bagpipe music and he didn’t have his headphones.

The view out the window became familiar. The car turned a corner into their neighborhood. First house on the left, Dylan recited in his head. On day one of grade school, Grandma made him say that back to her ten times before she let him on the bus.

Aida’s father pulled into Dylan’s driveway.

“Oh my,” said Aida’s mom, covering her mouth with one hand.

His mother was in the flowerbed. He unlocked the car door and jumped out without a word to Aida or her parents. Three steps up the driveway and he was with her.

“Mom?”

He knelt in the grass next to the flowerbed. His mother had smears of dirt on her face, in her hair, on her clothes. Her nails were caked with soil. She was sitting on her legs, spooning the mulch onto her lap.

He smiled for the first time that day. Another minute passed as he watched his mother in the soil. The hairs on his neck prickled.

He turned to see Aida’s parents still in the driveway, gawking out the windows. Mrs. Patterson from two doors over was paused, her yappy little dog sniffing at the edge of their lawn. He didn’t wait to see who else would show up.

“Come on, Mom.”

She didn’t protest as he gently pulled her to her feet and led her inside the house.

Two weeks later, Dylan sat on the porch steps with Aida.

“She’s doing worse.” He stared at his hands in his lap. “Half the time I’m not even sure where she is.”

“I’ve seen her outside,” Aida said slowly. “Doing… things.”

“Like what?” he asked, then quickly shook his head. “No, I don’t want to know.”

Aida lay a hand on his. Her dark hair fell into her eyes as she met his gaze. “Dylan, I’m here if you need anything.”

He stood abruptly. “I’m fine. We’re fine. Don’t say anything, okay?”

He hurried inside and shut the door without looking at her. Several seconds later, he heard the sound of her descending the stairs and walking down the driveway. The door creaked as he leaned his head against it.

A knock had him leaping away, gasping. Shaking out his hands, he opened the door.

“Yes?”

A familiar man stood in the doorway, holding an old suitcase. He smiled at Dylan and opened his arms wide.

“Look how you’ve grown!” the man cried, hugging Dylan with a tight grip. The suitcase pressed into his back painfully.

Dylan wriggled free. “Who are you?”

“I’m your Uncle Seamus. You don’t remember me, kiddo?”

He shrugged. The man — Uncle Seamus — was familiar-looking, and his hint of an Irish accent suggested he was related to Grandma.

“I’ll be staying with you folks for a little while,” he said, grinning. “Doesn’t that sound like fun?”

It didn’t, and it wasn’t. For the rest of the day and evening, Seamus bored Dylan and his mother with stories of the investment company he worked for. His mother smiled and nodded, winking at Dylan when Seamus’ back was turned.

The next morning, Dylan dragged himself out of bed, dreading breakfast with Uncle Seamus. Downstairs, he found several men speaking with his uncle.

“Your mother is sick,” Seamus said in a hushed tone, leaning close to Dylan’s face. “She’ll be at the hospital for a while. I’m going to stay here and take care of you.”

His stomach dropped. He wet his lips and forced his jaw to move. “Where is she? Can I see her? Can’t I go with her?”

“I’m afraid not, son,” said one of the men. “No visitors in the psychiatric ward.”

****

“Dylan,” Uncle Seamus called. He walked into the kitchen where Dylan stood, crunching on an apple. “I got another call from your school today. Were you fighting?”

Dylan shrugged and bit into his apple.

“Your teachers are worried. You’re acting out in class, your grades are dropping, and now fighting?” Seamus shook his head. “What’s gotten into you?”

He finished off the apple, chucking the core into the garbage can. He shrugged again.

“How did Elsie do it?” Uncle Seamus muttered.

Dylan flinched at his mom’s name. He crossed his arms and met Seamus’ gaze with a glare.

“Fine! If you won’t talk to me, I don’t know what to do.” The man stalked out of the kitchen, leaving Dylan alone, glaring at no one.

He dropped the glare, leaning against the counter. The scuffed tile floor seemed dirtier than usual. White tiles, stained from years of use.

His mom called it eggshell. She wouldn’t let anyone call it white.

“Eggshell is a spring day. What is white?” she used to say.

Dylan never saw the difference. White, eggshell, cream. It was all the same, really. Except it wasn’t to his mom. She saw the world in different colors, different terms. And they locked her up for it.

“Knock, knock,” said Aida, peering through the screen door.

“Come in.” He shifted to give her room to lean beside him.

“You’re fighting?” she said after a few seconds of silence.

He grunted.

“What is going on with you, Dylan? I barely recognize you anymore.”

His shoulders raised and dropped again in his newfound signature shrug. She slapped his right arm.

“Don’t do that. I’m sick of this,” she snapped.

“They took her,” he burst out, louder than he meant to. “They took her away and I don’t know why, and I can’t see her.”

He was shaking, staring at Aida with something desperate in his eyes.

“I know,” she said softly. “I know.” She touched his shoulder. “But this isn’t what she would want. Fighting? Dropping grades? You’re sitting here feeling sorry for yourself.”

“Don’t I have a right to?” he demanded.

“Sure. You can spend the rest of your life moping. Or you can pull yourself together and live a life your mom would be proud of. It’s your choice.”

She opened the screen door, pausing.

“I hope you make the right one.”

The door shut with a bang, rattling on its hinges. Dylan looked out the window at Aida’s back until she disappeared into her own house across the street. He kicked the doorframe, wanting to tear the ancient house apart.

The floor hadn’t changed, still a dusty, dingy faded white. No matter how he looked at it, no matter what angle, it didn’t change. It wasn’t eggshell.

His eyes fluttered closed. Memories of his mom floated through his mind. Her odd behavior. Her strange expressions. The way people stared at her and then quickly looked away. He knew she was different, but he’d never cared. He saw her the way she was meant to be seen. Someone incredibly unique, always joyful, always kind.

She saw the world in a way no one else could imagine. She saw hope where others saw despair. She saw opportunity where others saw defeat. She saw eggshell where others saw white.

Dylan opened his eyes. The floor hadn’t changed, but maybe that wasn’t the point. Maybe the floor would never change. But he could change how he saw it.

“Eggshell, Mom,” he whispered into the empty kitchen. “It’s eggshell.”

ABOUT US

Defiant Scribe is an online lit mag created for the 21st century. We offer an updated take on the literary magazine with contemporary content: writing that takes risks, explores heavy or taboo topics, is diverse and inclusive, and always defiant, always unique.